“Oh, Lady Washington,” sobbed Janice, as she threw her arms about the dame’s neck, “I—I am so miserable, an— an—and so happy!”
Ten minutes later, Janice, with pale cheeks, but determined air, sought her father in the parlour, and going on her knees at his feet, said,—
“I have that to tell, dadda, which I fear will anger and pain you greatly.” Then in a few words she repeated to him what Washington had told her.
“And why should that hurt me, lass? I own I treated the general somewhat scurvily, and that he has repaid it in different kind, but ’t will be no grief to apologise and thank him for what he did.”
“’T was not that of which I am apprehensive, but when I wrote to General Brereton, and besought his aid, I promised that I would wed him if he would but save you, and—and, oh, dadda, please be not angry with me, but I—I feel I must fulfil my pledge, if he asks it of me.”
“And how of your promise—and mine—to Phil?”
“I came to you, ere seeking to see him, to explain—”
The squire shook his head doubtingly. “I can’t lay blame on ye, Jan, since I owe my very life to what ye did. Yet ’t is bitter to me to break faith with Philemon.”
“I feel as guilty, dadda, but I think he will be generous, and give us back our promise, when I tell him all the facts.”
“And ’t is nigh as hard,” went on the father, “to think of letting ye wed General Brereton, though I do owe my life to him.”